


a sea that's painted black

by Waistcoat35, wildenessat221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtly Love, Dragons, Humor, Lots of dragons but most importantly an oc called Brian, M/M, Pining, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, arthurian bants, discorporation, historical inaccuracy because writing about dragons is fun and wikipedia is not, ops are just as much of a mess as you guys, romeo and Juliet eng lit paper roundhouse kicking us each in the gob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Before The Arrangement, there was a castle with grey-stone walls, a woodland that stretched for miles, a purely pragmatic (rather domestic) understanding and a dragon called Brian.Or: In which Aziraphale is a bit fed up with it all, Crowley is a half decent dragon rider, and some things go terribly wrong in order to put other things terribly right.





	a sea that's painted black

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings all! 
> 
> And welcome to a historically inaccurate Arthurian fun-fest cooked up by two friends who are about as obsessed with each other's writing as they are with Good Omens, and decided to combine the two.

Sometime in the future, Crowley would look back on those days, (remembered by history as Arthurian, because King Herbert held some insecurities and his scribe _really wasn't fond of him_ when he was feeling insecure) with some affection.  
  
It was a time of clean air and luscious forests, the expanse of Britain existing still as a swatch of greens interrupted only by Jackson Pollock splotches of grey brick and veins of dirt-road. Wildlife chattered away largely uninterrupted and the people did the same, and if they happened to stumble into conversation with a (not-quite) person with a somewhat animalistic speech impediment and eyes that were off in a way that _they couldn't quite put their finger on._.. Well, it takes all sorts doesn't it.  
  
Yes, in Arthurian times people were a little more accepting of difference. The witch hunts lurked in the future - wearing faces that were suspiciously like poor casts of Sandalphon - exorcisms were performed with the both the skill and frequency of stand-up comedy ("So what about cattle these days, eh? Oh, you... You want me to put the hat on instead... The one with the bells... Don't you want to hear about the... Yes Sire, of course I'll flatulate too... Not a problem in the world.") and everybody was so caught up in their own - completely necessary for survival in a world without law enforcement or flushing toilets - low-level depravity that there was a general unspoken consensus to leave individuals to their own devices.  
  
Day-to-day, that is.  
  
It was Crowley's job, of course, to prod these coals of low-level depravity until they grew into flames of disobedience and sin. However as had become something of a recurring theme during his four-thousand-five-hundred or so years on Earth, he didn't have to do a whole lot of prodding in reality, and when he did, he did so with a very long, very bendy stick that could reach around corners and wore thick, heavy gloves the whole time. It was a damp old world after all, and he much preferred to stay indoors by the fireplace, perhaps with a glass of something that could fell a war-horse, than to do any of the street-corner lurking that he knew his superiors had a fondness for.  
  
So yes, all in all, Crowley would end up looking back on Arthurian times with a fondness for its relative simplicity. The kind of fondness that you feel when you're standing on top of a mountain in the Peak District and find yourself wishing that the world was still comparatively untouched and simple, then immediately forget about when you dive into your electric shower with five pressure settings and lather yourself in limited-edition toffee-apple shower gel.  
  
If you had told Crowley this at the time our tale begins, he would have laughed in your face, then possibly bitterly made the blackberries you'd plucked on the way home turn to mush in your wicker basket.  
  
Dragons were infinitely better than horses, or at least treated Crowley better. It may have been something to with some sort of reptilian solidarity - maybe they could smell the snake in him. Or maybe it was just a natural affinity, like dog people and cat people. But either way, they threw him off far less frequently, were less inclined to spit and didn't have the tendency to kick out like a reclining sofa (which Crowley was already drawing out the blueprints for) at the first sign of trouble.  
  
Unfortunately, Crowley and the dragon, whose name was Brian, were on approximately their twenty-seventh sign of trouble. The rain, usually an unenthusiastic drizzle, had apparently gotten incredibly, uncharacteristically excited about something and was pelting down like a hormonal teenage boy might pelt stones at a pretty girl's window. It had invited thunder along, to add some ambiance to the occasion, and lightening to really liven things up. Between the watery refreshments, rumbling drum beat of the ground and electric flashing in the sky, there was a proper party atmosphere. The occasion? "_Crowley and Brian's First Crash!"_  
  
Crowley was trying very, very hard not to imagine himself crashing, - things that he imagined had a worrying habit of becoming real - but kept finding himself enjoying the irony of the situation and having to divert his mind back as Brian began to dip.  
  
After some time, he realised that the best course of action was to unplug his imagination altogether and actually drive. He took the reins between his rain-slicked pruny fingers and took a deep breath, before yanking Brian into taking a hard right. The world tipped beneath him, painting him into the background of an ill-hung portrait. Rainwater gathered in his ear. Brian let out a frightened cry and Crowley bit his tongue against a reassurance. _Bit of adrenaline, good for the soul, right?_ That's what he was telling himself at that moment anyway, in spite of the fact that he wasn't entirely sure if he himself had a soul in the conventional sense and if he did it wasn't feeling all that good.  
  
A bolt of lightning struck down directly in front of them and Brian reared back, gnashing his teeth and beating his wings incessantly. Crowley could almost feel the anxious fire burning up in the animal's belly beneath him. The reprieves between the flashes were getting smaller, but their destination was in sight. Just one, perfectly angled, perfectly timed swoop should do it.  
  
Crowley shut his eyes and tugged.  
  
The force of the rain on his face was akin to that of diving into a lake. His long hair trailed behind him, a sodden excuse for a weak carbon flame. Every muscle in his body was tensed, his ears a vessel for whooshing white noise. And then finally, blissfully, bumpily, jarringly, the impact of the ground.  
  
Brian let out a final fearful squawk before beginning his trot along the sodden courtyard towards his enclosure. Crowley expelled a long breath and collapsed bonelessly onto the creature's neck, bobbing along and feeling like a little boat on a fretful sea.  
  
In a few hours he'd come with armfuls of treats and hushed kind words on his tongue for the animal, he'd thank him for his service and soothe his nerves with gentle touches. He was a good companion, really.  
  
Before that though, he needed to find Aziraphale for a good old moan.  
  
***

  
It hadn't taken long for Aziraphale to establish himself in the kingdom. He had arrived obviously rich, obviously intelligent and while he didn't exactly present himself as the textbook warrior, most agreed that he had a certain intangible _edge_ to him that nine times out of ten, prevented people from getting on the wrong side of him. These three factors packed themselves into a neat parcel of nobility, which is exactly what he became.  
  
A life in the higher echelons of society was one which certainly suited him. If his heavenly superiors were to ask him why, he'd answer that it was easier to reach out and spread goodness when one has the means to - a fleet of horses at one's beck and call, for example, removes the need for unnecessary transportation miracles. Charity from a recognised and respectable face is more likely to be well-received than charity from a stranger.  
  
If, however, he was being honest with himself, he'd admit that it had its perks beyond these practical ones. He remembered the days of wandering the desert, living barefoot from one cave to another, with little nostalgic fondness, much preferring to return at the end of the day to a cosy room with a well-stocked fire and a collection of satin slippers. The food was rich and the alcohol like a punch in the face _in just the right way._ And although he'd never wish to incite fear in anyone, he took some slightly guilty pleasure in the fact that he was just high enough in society that unless they needed him for something, people tended to keep a respectful distance.  
  
There was, however, one notable disadvantage to being noble, but not quite noble enough to have your own army; it left you rather vulnerable to attack.  
  
He had found this out one October evening, when he'd ventured out for an evening stroll following a large meal and poor musical act. He was dressed head to toe in heavy, flowing, movement-restricting garments with no means of housing a weapon, and looked every bit the sitting-duck type easy target.  
  
His attacker was a Goliath of a man, with tree-trunk arms and large, meaty hands. He stood at six feet tall, and performed all of his ambushes from the woodlands, as his stature ensured that he blended in with the trees far more successfully than he had any hope of doing among human crowds. He wasn't mean spirited, not really - instead, he was unquestioningly religious and of the mind that God couldn't possibly have gifted him with such transparent assets for any other purpose than Guerrilla warfare. If Aziraphale had a moment to sit down with the man and listen to this philosophy, he may have directed him towards the next village, which was advertising for a farm-hand to snap logs for firewood.  
  
Unfortunately, his attention was rather focused on not being discorporated by his enormous hands, which had found themselves inexplicably quickly wrapped around his throat.  
  
"C'mon, sunshine, don't make this any 'arder than it 'as to be."  
  
Aziraphale shook his head the few millimetres that the man's grip would allow, and frantically patted his sides in an attempt to convey the fact that he was carrying no money. The man didn't seem to get the message, and frowned a dangerous frown. He stared into Aziraphale's eyes as he made his grip tighter...  
  
Tighter...  
  
Tighter...  
  
And then released.  
  
Aziraphale fell to the floor, gasping in breaths that his corporeal form didn't actually need, as the man released a frenzied cry from the back of his throat. Aziraphale watched through his saturated tunnel vision as his legs kicked out a few times in quick succession, before his whole body was on the move, back into the dense forest.  
  
He blinked confusedly, once, twice, three times.  
  
And on the third, there were two yellow eyes staring back at him, from inside a scaly black head.  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
"Nope. Cat'sss mother," the snake hissed sarcastically, before acquiring limbs, a distinct torso and a fair few other complicated features. His hair was longer than it had been since Golgotha, hanging down his back from a ponytail secured at the nape of his neck. He smirked. "Oh no, my mistake. Is me."  
  
"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale asked, levering himself off the ground and brushing dust off his robes. It'd always surprise him, it seemed, no matter how many times it happened, that Crowley always seemed to turn up at the right place and right time. He silenced any whispers in his mind along the lines of 'fate.'  
  
"Saving your arse, it seems. Although I was under the impression that I was actually just passing through on my way to wreak havoc," he gestured vaguely towards the kingdom, "Down there."  
  
"Oh!" Aziraphale said brightly, before immediately wishing that dimmer switches would hurry up and get themselves invented. "Oh," he repeated more soberly.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"That's where I'm currently ah... Stationed."  
  
"Stationed?" Crowley drawled amusedly. "That's what you're calling basking in the lap of luxury is it?" he asked teasingly, reaching out to flick the expensive fabric that hung from Aziraphale's arm. He batted the hand away petulantly.  
  
"I'll have you know that my current... Standing is for purely pragmatic reasons only. If I were living in squalor it would be far more difficult-"  
  
"Oh stop it, I don't give a rat's arse about your hedonism, in fact I actively encourage it."  
  
Aziraphale huffed. "It's not hedonism its-"  
  
"Pragmatism, alright, alright." Crowley held up his hands in surrender, then peered into the forest, "So what's a pragmatic, _very very wealthy_ bugger like you doing getting mugged by the minotaur's malnourished second-cousin then? Shouldn't you have... I dunno, a handsome young man with a substantial battle-axe trailing after you?"  
  
Aziraphale frowned.  
  
"Should I?"  
  
"Well I mean... If you're going to go out at dusk dressed like that-"  
  
"Never really thought about it."  
  
Crowley looked at the floor. He picked at his nail beds as an idea began to blossom in his head.  
  
"Always been fond of battle-axes, me."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"And the handsome thing well-" he gestured up and down his body.  
  
"Young?"  
  
"Less so, I'll give you that. But I'm... You know. In the area for a while. And from a _pragmatic_ point of view, as that seems to be your word of the hour, it'll be easy to do our respective thwarting if we're in close proximity. Takes out a lot of the hassle. And horse riding."  
  
"Yes," Aziraphale nodded - it was his turn to develop a sudden vested interest in his nail beds. "I suppose it would."  
  
And so it was settled. Crowley was to be Aziraphale's personal protective force, living in close proximity to him and at his beck and call.  
  
If anyone dared to suggest that the whole affair was touchingly domestic, Crowley would divert their attention to a cross stitch that he'd cheekily hung above Aziraphale's bed, which read "Pragmatism."  
  
***  
  
Crowley leaned heavily on the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other with his toe rested on the ground, and watched with a curious frown as Aziraphale busied around the chamber like a bowerbird - picking things up and then putting them down, fussing with the drapes, all the while muttering under his breath. There were lines gathered in the space between his eyes and his shoulders were stooped miserably.  
  
When he saw Crowley, he did a double take so vigorous that it verged on comical and his hand fluttered to his chest. Crowley raised his eyebrows in amusement and gave a little wave.  
  
"Hi, name's Crowley. You've known me for four thousand years and also _I live here."_  
  
"Good lord," Aziraphale expelled in a breath, "You can be terribly furtive when you want to be. And you don't live _here_ exactly, however much you make the effort to seem that you do," he said, waving an arm towards the windowsill where a tulip plant that he certainly hadn't put there sat innocently.  
  
Crowley shrugged. "S'a big world. I live in this bit of it. Counts as living here as far as I'm concerned." He perched on the edge of the writing desk, pushing a stack of papers out of the way. "Anyway, thought you'd have smelt me. The comforting pungent tang of disobedience and sin."  
  
"I _did_ smell evil," Aziraphale said bitterly. He pointed an accusatory finger towards the other end of the desk. "I assumed it was coming from that."  
  
Crowley followed his gaze down from Aziraphale's point, until it rested on an envelope with a broken wax seal.  
  
"This?"  
  
He nodded gravely.  
  
Crowley plucked it between his fore and middle finger and peered at the seal. It looked official, and while he couldn't sense any evil influences, the bureaucracy could have been smelt from a mile off. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
  
Aziraphale sighed a put-upon sigh.  
  
"It's a summons. To an affluent banquet, the attendees of which are guaranteed to be at loggerheads with each other. It doesn't say so on there, but reading between the lines, I think it's safe to say that my job will be to keep the respective books as good as possible." He ran a hand down his face, "I'm certain you can feel the enthusiasm coming off me in _waves_."  
  
Crowley made a sympathetic noise. "_Polite_ warfare, worst kind. At least with swords there's an end in sight."  
  
Aziraphale hummed glumly.  
  
"Worthy cause though, innit? Maybe not enough to get you a full smiley face on Uncle Gabe's reward chart, but worth an eye or two, surely?"  
  
"Upstairs haven't exactly been vigilant with their uh..." He made air-quotes, "Reward charts of late. And even if they had been, I'm fairly certain that my enthusiasm levels would remain just about the same. There isn't an awful lot you can buy with celestial wages, unless you're unusually enthusiastic about organ music."  
  
Crowley grimaced. "Fair enough."  
  
Aziraphale sighed again. "Just something to be endured. Placating. Negotiating. _Mingling_."  
  
Crowley made an affirmative noise. Then a small smile began to creep from the corner of his mouth. "Unless..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I mean it's not your fault if you're prevented from going because of some... Demonic activity, now is it?"  
  
Aziraphale recoiled backwards a couple of steps and held out the palm of his hand in a 'stop' gesture. "No Crowley, there is no way I will allow you to endanger innocent - if irritating - people just for the sake of-"  
  
"For pity's sake Aziraphale, I'm not going to burn the banquet hall down or... Bring forth a plague of locusts - that's more your lot's style anyway. All I meant was, you wouldn't have to go if you... Fell victim to the temptations of a very clever and very handsome demon."  
  
Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, almost by muscle memory, and then stopped. Closed it again. Looked at his feet.  
  
"What kind of temptations?"  
  
Crowley shrugged. "Oh, you know, sloping off the village inn instead, trying out something potent that Mrs-So-And-So has managed to brew together from her compost heap and the stagnant pond behind the stables. Come on, help a fella out. You know as well as I do that I ought to be seen to be doing something evil up here every once in a while. And think about it... If you come with me, what you're actually doing is some very clever wile thwarting - preventing me from doing a bit of leisurely dam bursting or crop salting or tax-collecting by keeping me occupied with this little bit of low-grade evil."  
  
"It's not evil, it's just lazy," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes primly and bobbing his head from side to side proudly.  
  
Crowley rolled his eyes.  
  
"Sloth is literally one of the seven deadly sins, Aziraphale. If you'd rather I tempted you into one of the heavier, _or indeed spicier_ ones," (any unwarranted comments Crowley's subconscious mind made about _lust lust lust lust lust_ were quickly batted away) "In order to fill my monthly quota, I'm more than willing to -"  
  
Aziraphale scoffed, "No, that's quite alright thank you, you..." He dropped into a chair - which had a case of woodworm so severe that it was significantly more 'worm' than 'wood' and made a concerning noise - and folded his arms petulantly. "Dastardly serpent."  
  
"Careful angel, pride's a sin too." Crowley said drily. "Is that a yes then?"  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips. Crowley was right - he couldn't technically be blamed for falling victim to the wiles of the opposition. That was just another move on the cosmic chessboard - a way of maintaining the status quo, and heaven _really loved the status quo._  
  
"It's... Not a no."  
  
Crowley blinked. In two-thousand years or so, the notion that Aziraphale was in any way ahead of his time would cause him to fall into a belly-laughing fit so profound that he would teeter dangerously close to discorporation. However, in this moment he was being very ahead of his time, because double negatives would not be invented until the 1800s, when the human population would become obsessed with mathematics and how it could help them efficiently pump the maximum amount of acrid smoke into the atmosphere as quickly as possible, and decide that it needed to be applied to language. So rather than Aziraphale's answer being an affirmative, it was nothing at all.  
  
"Is that a yes then?" Crowley repeated, after two more pointed blinks. (Although any blink Crowley produced was pointed, because it took a real effort to remember to do them.)  
  
"...yes."  
  
Crowley smiled. "This tempting lark, bread and butter. Me and Brian will pick you up at sundown. Wear something inconspicuous, for Satan's sake."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope to see you here again soon! 
> 
> Our update schedule is likely to be weekly, posting on Fridays, we say very tentatively. Might even get bonus updates! Or uh... Not. 
> 
> If you want to have a guess at who wrote what along the way, we'd love to know what you think. And naturally, we both exist solely on the Lifeblood of Comments, so if you have a mo, please drop one!
> 
> By the way, one of us would like to ask you to watch out for a playlist for the fic coming up at some point - the songs will be ones that fit the vibe, and some of them might even be *raises visor* KNIGHTCORE!


End file.
